


Garden of Dust

by diwata



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diwata/pseuds/diwata
Summary: “Don’t tell me that a magical killing notebook is our government’s operating theory?”“It’s not a theory, Haruno,” Sasori tuts. “It’s a fact.”Sasori plays the judge and the executioner in a game of cat and mouse. (Suna, Death Note AU)
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), background SasuSaku - Relationship
Comments: 55
Kudos: 40





	1. lousy lovers pick their prey

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever actual multi-chaptered story and marks my one year return to the Naruto fandom. As always whenever I write Sasori, I shrunk the age gap between him and the main cast. And as always, check the end notes for clarification.
> 
> Think of this as the amalgamation of many things: Death Note, Erased, HXH, and somehow, The Queen’s Gambit. Special thanks to whoever made the gungi guide on the HXH Reddit thread. Enjoy!

_Garden of Dust_

Two things wilt without warning,  
bleeding away their colors:  
a flower and a man’s heart.

– Ono no Komachi

* * *

**Chapter One**

Incense burns slow in the hills. Sasori buries his grandmother in the dry, dusty topsoil of her garden at dusk, the figure of her burial stone casting a long shadow across the small courtyard. When the sticks are offered, a woman with gold-spun hair approaches him. She wears her locks long, down her back. “My condolences about Grandmother Chiyo. She was well-loved in our community for her service.”

Like a moth to a flame, she appears. “Temari-kun—” Sasori begins— “Sabaku-san. I haven’t seen you since you were a child.”

“You haven’t,” Temari says, freckles littering her face. “As it were, I married two springs ago.”

“To which family should I extend my congratulations?” he asks. “I’ll have an arrangement sent.”

“The Nara household, near the oasis,” she replies, blush dusting her cheeks. “I’ve heard you’ve been around, Sasori-san. I have a friend that might be interested in meeting you, if you’d have her.”

“I’d be glad to. Any friend of Nara-san must be as beautiful as the desert sky herself,” Sasori cajoles. “Thank you for your condolences. We’ll be in contact soon.”

The green of her eyes is soft now, like sea glass, where its edges would cut as a girl. Marriage has filed down her teeth, he thinks. He writes the characters of her name carefully, picturing her sea glass eyes.

Suna is a landlocked state; many of their countrymen have never seen the sea. But near the Nara household, there rests a single lake. For the orphans of Suna, the oasis is the only ocean they’ve ever known. As the clock strikes midnight, Temari wakes with the desire to see the moon’s reflection on its surface. She leaves her husband a note and wanders to its gravelly shores. Like a pebble, her body is swept up into the wave.

They find her corpse, then her name. Her gold-spun hair is coiled around her neck.

* * *

The office is on the second floor of an abandoned bureaucrat’s mansion. Sasori surmises that it’s a measure to prevent jumpers from falling to their deaths. He pushes the heavy door open to a spacious room. Its walls are lined with tall bookshelves of medical textbooks and published journals. He skims the golden names carved into spines, arranged meticulously by volume and publication year. By the rustle of the closed blinds, Sasori gauges that the wide window is cracked open. He observes the neatly kept desk, the last in the series of the neatly kept office, but for the girl sitting at it, who moves as though she is held up by a string.

The girl glances up at him between bites of a wax paper-wrapped sandwich. “Ah,” she says, standing up, wiping the crumbs off of her lap, “Akasuna-sensei. Forgive me. You’re early.” The girl reaches over the mahogany barrier, reaching for his hand. The polished ruby of a silver wedding band catches his eye. “I’m Haruno-sensei,” the girl introduces herself.

“Ten minutes early,” Sasori intones. From behind her desk, wrapped in a pencil skirt and white blouse, she gives Sasori the impression of a university student playing dress-up. This woman is an outsider: this much is apparent to him by the strange rose of her hair, like a flower out of place in the desert. Her hand falls to her side when he doesn’t take it.

“A moment, Akasuna-sensei,” she continues in that same tone, apologetic but not very apologetic at all, “not all of us have embraced the technological revolution.” She slides open the bottom drawer of the metal file cabinet, thumbing through manila folders. “Y2K, what have you, not that it’s particularly relevant to the work of catching an international serial killer. I file everything by myself, it gives me the semblance of control.”

The rose-haired girl conjures the file and a clipboard, staring him with the fascination of a schoolchild on a trip to the zoo. “Barley tea?” she offers, apparently remembering her manners. She ambles to a small side table in the corner of the room. “The heat’s unbearable, and they aren’t coming to repair the air conditioner until Thursday.”

Sasori crosses his legs and uncrosses them, watching the bottom corner of her mouth drag down with the shape of the word _unbearable_. Years of academic instruction and employment in the city must not have been enough to curb the unruly shape of her mouth, which still strains to trickle like honey. The ice cubes fall down into the belly of a crystal tumbler; she pours, then sets the drink in front of him.

“There’s no need, Haruno-sensei,” he declines.

“There’s nothing in it,” the doctor tells him plainly, “except rosemary for garnish and a splash of whiskey for taste. We can talk prescription later.” Shrugging, she helps herself to the iced tea with a large gulp. “I’m still figuring out how to weather the Suna summer, the dustbowl and drought.”

“You become accustomed to it,” he replies, placing her drawl again, “when you live your life here.”

“You’re right – it’s August, anyway, and the summer will be over soon enough. Mask off,” Haruno commands. “I need to confirm your identity before we begin. It’s protocol.” He brings his mask down to his chin in one fluid motion. “Good. Please confirm that your legal name is Akasuna Sasori.”

“Yes.”

“What is your alias for the Kira case?”

He twists the silver ring around his thumb twice. “Antares.”

“That’s pretty,” she compliments. “They’re all stars, then. Can you confirm your date of birth?”

“November 8, 1964,” Sasori answers.

“Wonderful,” the doctor says, her eyes trained on him as she scribbles the confirmation in her notepad. “Thank you for your confirmation. Before we begin our session, I would like to explain the purpose of this meeting. A federal employee involved in the Kira investigation committed suicide approximately one month before you started at the base. To ensure the mental fitness and safety of our employees, we will be monitoring the psychological health of all government agents, especially ones on the Kira case. You are required to report to me every week.” She takes another sip from the glass. “I’m very familiar with your file and the psychological evaluation you submitted to the Director. During our interviews, we will discuss the contents of your evaluation in depth. Non-compliance will result in suspension, and if necessary, termination. Any questions before we begin?”

“Might I ask you to confirm your own identity, Haruno-sensei?” Sasori sinks back in the leather seat. “It seems dangerous for the cell to put so much personal information, and potential information about the case, in the hands of a psychiatrist.”

“Haruno Sakura, March 28, 1970. I have no alias, of course.” Haruno smiles at him, her jade eyes deceptively dull. “As part of my training, I received basic briefing about the Kira investigation. And of course, I am bound by confidentiality, unless I am required by the Suna Medical Association to report.”

“Very well.”

“That being said,” the psychiatrist continues, “I must admit my excitement. I remember reading Akasuna-sensei’s work throughout my fellowship. After medical school, two PhDs, and three books, what brings you back to the government?”

“There was an opening.” Sasori scans the contents of her bookcase again, recognizing the worn cover of one of his textbooks behind a folded wooden board. The circular disks that rest on the board pique his interest. “Gungi,” he observes. “Is it popular where you’re from?”

“We can play a game after we get through the questions,” says Haruno, artfully evading his question. “You’re special, aren’t you? Gifted, prodigious. Are those words they often used to describe you as a child?”

His fingers twitch, urging him to fiddle with the band once more. “Yes.”

“At the orphanage?” The movement of her pen returns his attention to her clipboard. “I understand that you lost your parents at a very young age. How would you describe your relationship with your parents?”

“Yes, at the orphanage,” Sasori says, remembering the decrepit building at the border of Fire and Wind. “I was young when they died, but father was kind.” He recalls the folded arms of an embrace, but the figures remain faceless, blurred. “Mother was warm.”

“Both were killed in action, right?” Haruno hums in affirmation. “That must have been hard for you. At the orphanage, was there any significant adult figure that you had a relationship with?”

“No,” he responds automatically. “My grandmother visited occasionally.”

“How often?”

“Once.” Haruno looks at him, dubious. She leans forward; he inspects her face. Like the Sabaku girl, Haruno has freckles. Sasori traces the shape of a kimono sleeve, gaze falling to the spot at the corner of her mouth.

“In 1980, the orphanage was shut down by the government for its use of children in the headmistress’s experiments. But you weren’t there, were you?” She clucks in disdain. “You joined the military at sixteen, following in your parents’ footsteps. You were promoted promptly, used the military to fund your education. I understand you were on the field for a few years during the war?”

“I was deployed in Iwa for two years as a footsoldier, then in Ame as an intelligence officer. I stayed behind to complete my first degree before returning to Suna.”

“You were only a teenager when you were first deployed, then. Tell me about the war,” inquires the psychiatrist.

Sasori stares at the corner of her mouth for a while, compelling, as if it is harboring a secret in daylight. “So far, you’ve only asked me questions you know the answers to.”

“Yes,” Haruno agrees. A ring of condensation forms on the grain of her desk. “And you’ve been good about answering them, Akasuna-sensei. Continue.”

“The war was like any other war,” he obliges, “violent and banal, chaotic. We were boys. We killed to survive.”

“We?”

“My squadron,” Sasori clarifies, annoyed.

“And were you close with your squadron?”

Holding his ring between his thumb and index finger, he turns the band twice before he hears the scratch of Haruno’s pen on paper. “No.”

“War is a terrible thing,” Haruno laments. “Cruel and senseless and unnecessary.”

“Very necessary,” Sasori quips. “The art of war is of vital importance to the State. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or to ruin. Hence it is a subject of inquiry which can on no account be neglected.”

“Sun Tzu,” she recognizes. “That’s clever. Do you often recite passages from memory?”

“Only the clever ones.”

Haruno’s laugh reminds Sasori of the sound of broken glass. “As expected of the ingenious Akasuna-sensei. Tell me, are you familiar with the story of the young footsoldier from Kiri?”

“Am I still being interviewed?”

“No, no.” The young woman shakes her head. “I just thought you might know the story. It was popular among the troops that’d come in for treatment.” The wooden floor creaks beneath her heels as she goes to pour herself another drink. “There was a young soldier from Kiri—”

“I never would have guessed.”

“You must think I’m an uncommonly stupid woman,” she says, wearing her smile from before.

He realizes she’s been taunting him with the gesture.

“The story goes that he was touched by a smaller god, in the time of Warring States. They said a Shinigami fell in love with him and followed him through three battles. Then—” the psychiatrist stirs her tea with a rosemary stem— “the night before he leaves for home, he spends the night with a local woman.”

“A prostitute,” Sasori corrects, drawing circles in the faded leather arm of his chair.

“The Shinigami kills the woman and turns to dust. The young soldier, struck with grief at the loss of his lover, reaches for his gun. Before he can pull the trigger, the Shinigami takes his life, too. As the young soldier closes his eyes, he sees golden dust scattered across the leaves of the garden. From the Shinigami’s sacrifice, the aucuba was born.”

“Sacrifice?” Sasori eyes the gungi board on her bookshelf. “She was jealous, so she took their lives. It was vengeance.”

“In some versions, yes.” She takes a sip of her drink before following the direction of his gaze. “On ortho rotation, a lieutenant told me another. He said that the Shinigami had seen a dagger in the woman’s hand and killed her to save the young soldier. ‘The only way to kill a Shinigami is to make them fall in love with a human,’ is what he said, I think. It follows that death is fallible— that love can conquer death.”

“They all perish in the end,” he counters. “Is gungi popular where you’re from?” Sasori repeats.

Haruno arranges the wooden board between them. “No, this board was a gift from an old friend. He taught me, but to be honest, I don’t play very well.” She balances a Marshall between her index and middle finger. “His wife grew up with the game and tried to tutor me, but it was no use.”

“And the aucuba?” he presses.

“Am I being interviewed?” Haruno parrots, flashing the white Marshall at him once more. “Let’s play, we have half an hour for a quick game.”

Sasori moves to roll up his sleeves. “That’s not enough time.”

“Timed moves, one minute and thirty seconds each. If the Marshall isn’t captured, it’s first to ten points. If neither opponent reaches the ten mark, we’ll count pieces.”

“Speed tournament style,” he notes.

“On the clock,” Haruno says, tapping a manicured nail against the glass face of her watch. “I’ll start.”

Four-four-one, pawn. Sasori moves to reveal his reply.

The young doctor stacks archers on her pawns. He sees the sharp glint in her eyes as she perches her elbows on her desk.

“I thought you said you didn’t play,” the man comments, suddenly curious. He sets a fortress down on the board, then a major general, anticipating her next move.

“I don’t,” Haruno says, “but I hate losing.”

Pawn, knight, samurai. A two-tier configuration, an orthodox approach. Sasori clears part of the board with his major, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on his knees. “I have a story for you, Haruno.” She places another knight. “Mate in three.” He stacks an archer on his fortress.

Haruno taps her knight again, sliding it forward. Eight-eight-one, knight. “Check,” the psychiatrist informs him. “Is it about Kira?”

Sasori grits his teeth as he takes her knight. “Mate in three,” he says, recalibrating his configuration of the board. “Yes and no. It’s about an evil thief and a spider’s thread. When it came time for the thief’s judgment, Buddha saw that he had once saved a spider. The spider’s golden thread became his route to absolution. Almost to heaven, he gazed back down.”

“The thread snapped.”

Haruno’s Marshall sits, surrounded by a white fortress. “The thread didn’t snap of its own accord. Buddha clipped it and watched as the thief fell to his demise.”

“I’m sure Kira fancies himself the Buddha of this world,” says Haruno, “but isn’t he more like the thief? Killing power— any man with a loaded gun possesses that. What makes Kira better than a common mass murderer?”

“We’ve surmised his motive from letters and videotapes,” Sasori replies, calm, stoic. “Kira believes he can see the golden thread.”

“Most serial killers do—” she examines the board, holding her chin in her hand– “maybe not in such poetic terms, though. I hate men like Kira, who can only think a certain type of way. Who gets to be the judge and the executioner? Why don’t we let the living decide for themselves?”

“The killing may be a compulsion,” Sasori answers, completing his sequence. “Check.”

“You’re their profiler, then?” asks the psychiatrist, sliding her piece towards him. “Seven-eight-two, spy. Mate.”

How could he have missed a move so obvious? “You’re formidable, for someone who doesn’t play.”

“Ponder and deliberate before you make a move.”*

Sasori narrows his eyes at the mockery.

“Thank you for your cooperation today, Akasuna-sensei.” Haruno rotates the sweating tumbler, ruby ring clamoring against the cup. “Please close the door on your way out.”

* * *

Of his cell, Procyon suspects Sasori first, then Rigel follows suit. It doesn’t bother Sasori, whose favorite is Felis. He takes lunch with the man at noon every day at the café around the corner. Felis talks to him at length about the things they share: woodworking, and a taste for baroque music. The waitress is sweet on him, Felis claims when their orders arrive. In their closed booth, Felis pulls his mask down to share his meal.

“She’s never seen your face, I have no clue why she’s sweet on you, lucky bastard,” he scowls into his soup. Sasori dumps his extra noodles into his coworker’s bowl at his insistence. In between mouthfuls, Felis lectures Sasori on the best places to pick up scrap wood for restoration pieces and the importance of using a natural dye.

“It doesn’t make a difference,” Sasori says on their way out, “you wipe the excess off, either way.”

“My nephew prefers the natural dye.”

“Your nephew has limited knowledge of nursery rhymes, let alone craftsmanship.”

Felis scratches at the ear of his cap, aggravated. His brown hair peeks out from beneath the fabric. “So, what do you think of Sakura? She’s a looker, isn’t she?”

He hits the button for the elevator, scanning his ID for the top floor. “Sakura?”

When they step into the unit, their colleagues are gathered at the round conference table, their brows furrowed. “Haruno-sensei,” says Rigel, with ears like a barn owl.

“Oh, Haruno.” The redhead flips through the weekly murder reports by county on the desk. “She’s interesting. She appears to be very knowledgeable for a woman that was only transferred to the case recently, and who is new to the country.”

“You’re one to talk,” accuses Procyon. He sits with his arms crossed against his chest, defiant. “Check yourself. You’ve been with us less than a month.”

“I served in our military. I am from Suna,” Sasori says, voice level. “That’s more than I can say for Haruno. Where was she transferred from?”

Procyon’s pale green eyes reward Sasori with a contemptuous glare. If his mask weren’t covering the bottom half of his face, Sasori imagines the young man might actually be baring his teeth. “Lighten up,” interjects Felis. He places a patient hand on Procyon’s shoulder. Rigel’s fine brow remains tilted, not looking at the cell’s newest member. They let the issue rest.

* * *

The letter from Konoha comes early on a Saturday morning. Sasori reads the message twice before the flame of his match envelopes it, its charred remains crumbling to ash. Disappointed with the sloppy and haphazard killings in Suna’s sister country, he opens his computer to its prison databases. The executions occur daily: once on Sunday, twice on Monday, scaffolding to seven on Saturday.

There is never a scarcity of work or guilt, Sasori discovers, only a scarcity of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sakura quotes The Art of War back to Sasori.
> 
> Happy New Year's Eve to everyone I'm in fandom with. It's been a wild year back! Wishing you and your loved ones warmth and luck.


	2. pale shadow of a woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Year, new chapter. Happy New Year! Weekly updates from now on. The story is fully written. :)

**Chapter Two**

The board is on the table when Sasori arrives. “I thought we’d play a proper match,” Haruno invites. She gestures for him to take his seat.

Reclining, he peers across from him. “It’s unorthodox to interview a patient like this, Haruno.”

“I see you’ve dropped my honorific, Akasuna-sensei,” she says. “I’ll pretend that I’m not offended.” The layers of her petal pink hair shake with her laughter. “Mask.”

Sasori shoves the piece of cloth into his pocket.

Haruno lays her pieces down promptly. “My friend told me that gungi is a perfect game because it’s all about pattern recognition. I suppose, in the context of formal game theory, it is. It’s a non-chance, combinatorial game with perfect information.”

Minutes pass. He arranges black on the first and third tier, contemplative. “No dice,” Sasori says.

“Yes, so there are discrete outcome vectors, rather than bullshit probability distributions,” Haruno replies after looking at the board for some time, “and all the moves are visible to both players through single vertex analysis.” She places a white pawn and major general. “Nothing is hidden.”

“Is that so?” Sasori knocks his ring against the psychiatrist’s desk twice. He builds a second tower with a black general and spy.

“In theory.” She stacks her archers on her pawns, predictable. “Have you ever been married, Akasuna-sensei?”

“Is this part of the interview?” He studies her pieces. “No.”

“Do you have any children?”

“It’s all in the file, Haruno,” Sasori replies. “No.”

“Here’s a question that’s not on file for Akasuna-sensei. Have you ever been in a long term relationship that lasted more than six months?”

“No.”

“What is the length of your longest relationship?”

“I’m not certain—” he tilts his face to rest against his palm, envisioning a future pattern of attack—“a month or two. I apologize for the gap in memory.” Sasori moves. Four-five-one, musketeer.

“You’re an extreme aggressor,” Haruno observes. After ten minutes, she sets a knight and a cannon down.

“As you are,” he retorts, examining her tower close in on his Marshall.

The psychiatrist squints at the black lieutenant general climbing towards her corner of the board. “Would you say that you experience discomfort in intimate situations?”

“I’m extremely capable of intimacy, Haruno. Frankly, I’m questioning your interview methodology.” She muffles a dry cough. “No tea today?”

“Well, fuck,” the rose-haired woman sputters. She rises from the desk, bringing his attention to the neat form of her red dress. Haruno drinks, holding her ambrosia close to her chest. “Capacity and discomfort are distinct. Moving forward, approximately how many relationships have you had in the past five years?”

“Operationally define relationship.”

Haruno’s head hovers over the board. “Anything more than a one-night stand, ranging from a casual fling to a live-in relationship.”

“A handful.”

“Define a handful.”

Sasori frowns. “Ten or less.”

Her heels click as she paces back and forth behind her desk. His frown deepens. “I think better on my feet,” Haruno explains, not apologizes. She moves.

Two-eight-two, fortress. He ponders the imminent threat she might present. “You do,” he agrees, impressed. “Perhaps you can help.”

“Help?”

“As you’ve correctly hypothesized, I am profiling Kira.” He watches Haruno’s tongue dart out to wet her bottom lip. “You’re interested.”

“Hm, well,” she says, hesitant, “I don’t know anything about Kira’s MO. That would be rather difficult.”

Sasori moves his Marshall to safety. “But you’re interested.” Her silver bangles jingle as she rejoins him at the table to sit and accepts his test. “We’ve determined that Kira is in possession of a particular notebook.”

“Don’t tell me that a magical killing notebook is our government’s operating theory? Our taxpaying citizens—”

“It’s not a theory, Haruno,” he tuts. “It’s a fact. Kira confirmed he can kill remotely by murdering a man on live television.”

“Tell me,” she says, her smile polite and hollow, “what are the rules?”

“Kira needs a name and a face,” Sasori divulges. “He can determine the time and cause of death, but it’s typically by heart attack.”

“And what is the order of killings?”

“Daily, increasing with the day of the week.”

“Interesting. And who are the victims?” Her archer rides the back of a white samurai, inching towards the left side of the field.

“Criminals in Suna, politicians in Konoha—” Sasori’s fingers skim Sakura’s as he drums them against the board, calculating his next move— “some clusters of civilians in Ame and Oto, though these haven’t been confirmed by our team.”

Haruno clicks her tongue. “Not very specific for a pattern.”

He plants the seed. “Kira says he sees the golden thread. I would diagnose Kira with obsessive-compulsive disorder and paranoid schizophrenia.”

“No, he’s not schizophrenic. He surely has a god complex, but that’s pure narcissism. Have you considered that the golden thread is merely a metaphor?” The woman traces the rim of the tumbler with her index finger. “I’ll bite. Kira is a man in his late twenties to mid-thirties. He is highly intelligent, well-educated, and knows the system well, because he is in the system.”

Sasori moves his spy forward, towards her fortress. “We agree on the demographic.”

Haruno resumes her pacing for some time, walking around the desk thrice. “He’s a man who gives the appearance of being well-connected. Superficially, he might appear to be a bachelor, or a ladies’ man. In reality, years of solitude, likely stemming from childhood, rendered him precise and extremely detail oriented. He has a strong sense of justice that he’s boiled down to a killing algorithm. He’s the type of person who labels each item in his fridge, alphabetizes his record collection.”

“Congratulations, Haruno. You’ve effectively described half of the former military officers now working in the government.” Then, out of spite, he prods, “I’m surprised you can play gungi at all, with a stone that size weighing your hand down.”

The gentle upward curve of her lips is different, now. “My husband was very generous with me,” she whispers. Haruno stares at the gem, as if to summon him. “You catch more fish when you cast a wider net.” Her samurai takes his captain.

“A ruby held up to the sunrise,” Sasori recites, “is it still a stone, or a world made of redness?”* They play in silence, neither retreating.

Haruno makes her final move. The white spy, who had been sitting latent, now controls the board. Sasori’s right side is destroyed. Haruno’s eyes look inexplicably clear to him, still standing. “One last question,” the psychiatrist says, holding her hand out for him to shake, “do you think Kira likes to play games?”

* * *

The woman’s profile is blown up on their screen with Kira’s newest recording. Sasori memorizes the strokes of kanji, an unfitting delicate name for an unrefined woman. “Play it back,” dictates Procyon. Felis rewinds the tape obediently.

Kira’s symbol flickers on the monitor. “I am here hidden in plain sight. Who knows your secrets? One of six will bear your name.”

Sasori stares blankly at his masterpiece.

“Hidden in plain sight? Are we being watched?” Felis guesses.

“Antares said Kira works within the system,” Rigel reminds the team. “Hidden in plain sight supports this belief.”

“And who knows your secrets,” adds Procyon.

“Whether it’s Haruno or not,” says Sasori, measured, “we need to be careful.”

Rigel tugs on the end of his tie to loosen it. His eyes seem to sink deep into his face, casting a shadow beneath them. “One of six will bear your name. How troublesome.”

“You’re talkative today, Rigel.”

“What does six refer to?” Beside him, Felis rubs his grumbling stomach. It’s half an hour into their regular lunch break.

“Six victims,” the man posits, his tight ponytail shining under the fluorescent light. “On Friday, Kira will execute one of us.”

“Impossible,” Sasori argues, “Our real names and identification photos are encrypted. ‘Your name’ is vague. We should put a watch out for all government officials until the end of next week. In the meantime, we have to arrest the most probable suspect.”

“Trust me, it’s not her. Don’t waste your time.” Rigel sighs. “Though I’m sure you know that already.”

* * *

A springtime field, a cherry blossom. Neither has any place in Suna. Her death is premature, but it is the consequence of her cunning. For her wit, her death is peaceful, a quiet goodbye in a night of restful slumber. His correspondent from Konoha tells him that cherry blossom trees rot from the inside out, leaving behind a brittle shell. Sasori wonders how long it will take for them to find the body.

When he next sees her, he freezes mid-step.

“What’s the matter, Akasuna-sensei?” Haruno inquires, newly risen from the dead. Her broad strides echo throughout the unit’s halls. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sasori quotes a poem by Rumi.


	3. better put your kingdom up for sale

**Chapter Three**

A spider spins its web and Sakura’s hair catches mid-day sunlight like a desert fire. “How do you tell it’s autumn in the desert?” Sakura asks.

“You offer green tea instead of barley.”

“That’s funny,” she says, pointed.

“It’s very funny,” deadpans Sasori.

Sakura fans herself with her clipboard, causing the collar of her half-buttoned blouse to sway. “We have a short session today,” she says. “I’ll be asking about your credentials. What is your highest degree of level of education, and in what fields?”

“Medical school, doctorates in analytical chemistry and clinical psychology.” His signet clinks against the ceramic as he takes a sip. “What is your background in, Haruno?”

“I did a joint program, medical school and a doctorate in computational neuroscience.”

“A new discipline,” Sasori says. He makes a mental note to research the program. “So, we aren’t contemporaries.”

“Alright, let’s get this over with.” She stretches her back, popping her joints. “Rapid fire. What types of grades did you receive as a student?”

“High marks.”

“More precise, please. Top of your class?”

“Yes.”

“Were you ever subject to any form of discipline by school?”

“No.”

“Were you ever diagnosed with a learning disability or receive accommodations at school?”

“No.”

“Rate your overall satisfaction with school.”

He snorts. “It was satisfactory.”

“I could have phrased the question better, but you don’t have to be rude.” Sakura wrinkles her nose, jotting notes down.

“It was a sloppy and poorly worded question,” Sasori criticizes. “It was warranted.”

“That took all of fifteen minutes—” the pink-haired woman checks her wrist— “It’s been a while since we last played, and we have a bit of time. Why don’t we play? It will be my birthday present to you.”

“You are a terribly arrogant woman, Haruno.”

“I am,” the psychiatrist agrees, finding the gungi set on the top shelf, “and I’m not afraid of you.” Sakura spares him a cursory glance. “Especially not while you’re wearing those glasses.”

“Nor am I afraid of you and your peculiar hick accent,” Sasori returns.

“If that’s your roundabout way of asking me where my accent is from,” she says, frank, “you’re as curious as a child today. I grew up in the rural outskirts of a large city, asshole. My accent is endearing, got it?”

“Sure, if you enjoy proper yelling.”

The upper corners of her lips curl. Sakura’s smile is slow and is almost never full. “Damn it, I liked you better when you quoted clever passages.”

“I still can—” Sasori makes the first move, arranging the black Marshall on a back row— “If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.”*

“I see what you did there,” Sakura says. She places her Marshall down with haste. “But I’m not so volatile.”

He places a pawn two spaces away. She mirrors the movement. He stacks a tower. Eight-one-one, spy.

The psychiatrist sets a cannon, letting him build a fortress. She introduces a musketeer. “Remote concealment,” Sakura notes. “Your Marshall is isolated.”

“In Suna, it’s called kokoriko.” Sasori fortifies his fortress and lays archers atop the towers. “It was developed by my grandmother, fifty years ago.”

“I was thinking about our last meeting,” the psychiatrist says, craning her neck to look at the board from a different angle. “You’re closing in on a suspect, yes?” Two white generals flag the fortress on either side.

He assesses her crane formation, which extends towards his isolated Marshall. “We are. A man in Konoha.”

“It’s good you’re looking there. But personally, I’m of the belief that there’s more than one Kira.” Sakura stacks on the right flank, the obvious move: one-nine-three, archer.

Sasori watches as she builds a three-pronged attack. “Kira isn’t the type to collaborate. It disrupts his fantasy of being a divine authority.”

“But consider this: there are too many conflicts in the profile, pointing to disparate victims and ideologies.” The shadow the blinds cast on Sakura’s cheek is objectively lovely, Sasori acknowledges. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think they like each other very much. One wants anarchy, the other wants order. One of Kira’s first victims was Sarutobi Hiruzen, the Third Hokage. His death precipitated a series of events. A war, if you will. What’s your opinion?”

“That’s only more evidence that refutes your theory, Haruno.” Not playing to her rhythm, he slides his lieutenant general to the middle of the board.

“They’re working together. It’s the only way to explain the international scope of Kira’s crimes.”

“Wouldn’t they want to eliminate each other instead? It’s the basic psychology of power.”

“Maybe they’re simply biding time, trying to catch one another.” The psychiatrist stares at the rotating ceiling fan for a moment. “All warfare is based on deception.”*

“Hence when we are able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must appear inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near,” he completes. “Only two?”

She rubs her chin with her thumb, nibbling on her lip thoughtfully. “Are you suggesting there’s more?”

“It’s plausible. I’ve considered it before. After all, there are more than two loci for the murders.” He entertains her, fascinated by her eerily accurate conclusion. “What’s your profile for the second Kira?”

Sakura toys with a new lieutenant general. “My husband and I took a trip to Oto once. We met a very strange man, an outcast by choice. The second Kira is someone who was forced from his home early in life. Maybe a refugee who had to confront his mortality at a young age. Not as smart as the first Kira, of course.” She smiles again at her new arrangement. “General in the middle.”

Sasori clasps her hand in defeat.

* * *

Kankuro makes three mistakes as the year resets: he brings a crate of sake to the office, rendering them inebriated and sloven; he forgets his wallet on the sink of their private bathroom; and he returns to headquarters after forgetting.

“Man, you scared the shit out of me. I thought you headed out with Rigel.” His coworker’s speech is still heavy with the scent of alcohol when Sasori stretches his leather gloves over his hands.

“I came back to test a theory, but I’m going out to smoke.” Sasori walks over to the bathroom and brandishes Kankuro’s possession. “Missing this?” he asks, holding the wallet out. “I’ll walk you down.”

“Thanks,” Kankuro extends his gratitude. “You really need better work-life boundaries.”

The redhead shrugs a light jacket on. He holds the door to the office open. “Come along. Don’t keep that nephew of yours waiting.”

“This a new victims list?”

Sasori pauses at the question. “Alleged. Unreported cases from Ame.”

“Huh,” huffs Kankuro. The man turns a page and shakes his head. “This is way too sophisticated for me. Guess that’s why you and Rigel are the brains of the cell.”

The redhead taps his foot, impatient. Inside his pockets, gloved hands clench and unclench. “Felis.”

Kankuro scratches at his black hat, red-faced. Then, he darts to the door. “Never seen you this excited to get out of here, Antares.”

“New girl at home,” Sasori lies.

His colleague guffaws, walloping him on the back. “Don’t tell the waitress,” he says on the elevator down, “don’t want us to lose our discount.” He chuckles about the development, seemingly oblivious.

But Sasori watches him retreat. When he turns the corner, the brunet has lost the look of innocence.

They book the thief who mugged Kankuro two hours after they discover his body slumped over in an alleyway. The perpetrator is a petty criminal fresh out of high school. They find him with Kankuro’s blood dried on his clothes, his wallet in his breast pocket.

Procyon, Sasori reckons, sees red. “Take her into custody,” he demands. “We should have done this months ago.”

“Wait, wait,” deliberates Rigel. “This could be an unrelated murder.”

“Don’t be naïve.”

“No more protecting her,” Sasori says sternly. “This has gone on for too long.”

“You think it’s a coincidence that two of our squadron have died during the course of the Kira investigation?” Procyon snaps, sweeping Rigel’s documents off the conference table. “I’m tired of inaction. We’re putting an end to this.”

Rigel’s head falls in exasperation, the spiky hairs of his ponytail sticking up. “Ponder and deliberate before you make a move,” he says.

“These are the facts,” Sasori begins, “Haruno began working in her office shortly after your first deceased agent’s death. The last Kira video said that Kira knew our secrets and that one of us would die on a Friday. She is the only person in the government that knows our legal names and faces. Thus, she’s the only one capable of the crime. She’s suspicious and we have enough here for probable cause.”

Sakura’s headshot watches knowingly from the CCTV. Rigel looks at her, expecting her to speak. “You may proceed,” the man admits defeat fifteen minutes past the hour, then gives the order: “Detain Haruno Sakura.”

Sasori weaves a way that leads straight to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sasori quotes The Art of War.  
> **Sakura quotes The Art of War, Sasori completes the passage.


	4. black widow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short interlude before we wrap it all up. Have fun!

**Chapter Four**

_interlude_

“You have no proof, you asinine fascists,” is the first thing Sakura says to him when he visits her in her holding cell. The second thing is so colorful and rich in profanity that Sasori doesn’t bother to register it.

“Lunch, Haruno,” Sasori says, ignoring the wad of spit forming in her mouth. “Sit down.”

“So he brings gifts.” The pink-haired woman inspects his offering with a put-upon grimace.

“The team is about done conducting their search of your home and office.” The intelligence officer returns Sakura’s wedding ring to her ring finger. “Happy birthday. I know you’d prefer to drink yourself to death, but alcohol is prohibited in the penitentiary.”

Reunited with her possession, Sakura’s breath seems to catch in her throat. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” she berates, chewing at the inside of her cheek. “Took you long enough to see me.”

“Use your fireplace often?” Sasori asks, stifling a yawn. “They’re a peculiarity in Suna. Even more peculiar is that the report shows that you lit a fire the night of Kankuro’s death.”

“It gets cold at night in the desert for a woman with no husband to keep her company.”

“Your attitude won’t lessen your punishment,” he snarks. “Do yourself a favor.”

“I find it remarkable that you believe you can punish me for a crime with no evidence,” Sakura says. “The basic principles of justice – the State has the duty to prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that the defendant is guilty.”

“The State has a duty to prosecute, and the killings have stopped for three months since you were first arrested. Now tell me, Haruno, is that circumstantial evidence compelling enough for you?”

“Not compelling enough to stand in court, no.” The prisoner picks at her food. “Though months in solitary is a classic method of coaxing a confession.” She raises a thin brow at the next gift bestows upon her. “Thought you said it was unorthodox.”

“It’s part of my present.”

“I do love to win.”

The gridwork of the wooden board draws an axis from her to him. “Tell me about your childhood.”

“An open-ended question, an interesting choice for an interrogation.”

Sasori fights the urge to lecture her about manners when she rests her elbows on the table as she takes lunch.

“I’ve lived an unexceptional life. I grew up in an apartment in the rural suburbs outside of Konoha, right above a butcher’s shop. It was peaceful. My mother was a secretary, my father mostly grew produce in our backyard. It was always a simple path for me – all girls prep school, then high school, then medical school. I became a doctor. I married my first boyfriend; that was less simple. My husband passed and I moved here.”

The psychiatrist writes down the name of the city, noting her parents’ careers. “Describe your relationship with your parents.”

“My mother was rough around the edges, but well-meaning. My father had a great sense of humor. Though they didn’t often understand my ambition, they were always proud. We were always proud of each other.”

“Were?” Sasori makes the first move, building a tower with a pawn.

“The civil war changed things. I haven’t seen them since I left Konoha.”

“The civil war. Is that how you lost your husband?”

Sakura places a knight near the center of the board. “You could say that.”

“Describe your marriage.” He holds a black lieutenant general in his right hand. “Besides brief.”

“It’s unprofessional to mock your patient’s trauma, Akasuna-sensei.” Sakura sticks her chin up, stubborn and defiant. “My husband was kind and gentle. Our marriage – it was like a kindling flame. We spent most of our time together, traveling. Then we decided to settle down.”

“Interesting. What caused you to settle down suddenly?”

The jade of Sakura’s eyes seems to grow cloudy with horrors that she cannot stop seeing.

“Haruno.”

Sasori watches a single tear trail down the tip of her nose and settle into her Cupid’s bow. “I was pregnant.”

“Where is your child now?”

Sakura swallows a large mouthful of rice and wipes the tears from her face. “She died in the NICU.”

“Approximately when did this happen?”

“Two years ago, in the spring.” The prisoner moves. Four-four-three, archer.

“Has anyone told you that it seems like death follows you, Haruno?” Sakura continues to attack where he is weak. “Your daughter, your husband. You move here and two members of the Kira cell die within mere months of each other.”

“Shut your mouth before I shut it for you,” the rose-haired woman bites back. Sasori replies with a knight of his own. “Your bullying is a flimsy intimidation tactic.” She reaches for her pieces, then stops. “Pay attention. If the murders have stopped since my detention, this merely confirms my theory. Point A, Kira must be a government insider, because he knows that I am being detained.” The intensity of her gaze falls on the back of his black Marshall. “Point B, the Kiras must be working together if all international killings stopped.”

Sakura takes a long sip of water.

“But there is one thing you were right about,” she concedes. “There are more than two Kiras. Before I moved to Suna, there was a strange news cycle about a suicide cult. Each victim walked to their deaths off the top of Hokage Mountain. They were all members of Konoha’s underbelly – the sex trade, councilmembers, Root operatives. The strangest detail, though, was that each victim left behind a poem for the police to find. I was called to consult but the case grew cold.” She decides on a piece. “Do you think Kira can control a victim’s actions before death?”

“It’s possible,” the psychiatrist says, anticipating her move. “Which poet?” he asks, hoping to divert the conversation.

“Ono no Komachi.”

Sasori studies a stray strand of hair against Sakura’s forehead. “An unusual beauty.”*

“A woman.” Six-six-one, the rose-haired woman sets her major general. “A Kira who spares the kindhearted.”

Seeing his loss, Sasori spills his remaining pieces on the board. Sakura is released two weeks later for lack of proof when the murders in Konoha resume.

She holds out her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ono no Komachi was a poet famed for her unusual beauty; her name became synonymous with beauty.


	5. gold dust woman (rulers make bad lovers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, taking a bit of a writing hiatus now. Have fun!

**Chapter Five**

All of Sakura’s career in Suna fits into four plastic bins. Her manor rests in the same district as the old orphanage. Sasori glowers at the decrepit water fountain he would bathe in in his youth from the driver’s seat as he pulls into her driveway. When her door swings open to greet him, she gives him a funny look. “Rigel said he’d be over,” Sakura rebuffs him and goes to unload the remaining boxes from his trunk. “You know your therapy sessions aren’t covered by the government anymore, right?”

He sits on her porch. “Are you done?”

“Yes,” she permits, “well, come inside.” Sakura makes a face at the maelstrom of her professional belongings. “Your men fucked up the system I had while looking for that magical murder notebook, it’ll take forever to reorganize everything.”

“They were doing their jobs.”

“As was I,” the woman fires back, point-blank. “What do you want?”

Sasori stands, counting the trinkets intricately displayed on her antique table. He’d volunteered to bring the boxes over on a Saturday morning. He has no excuse. “Let’s speak candidly.”

“There’s nothing I can do for you, you’re aware?”

He knows. The implication dangles between them with the length of her hair, which falls to her ribs as she shakes it out of a ponytail. “You have an impressive collection,” Sasori remarks, appreciating the volume and diversity of literature packed into her home study.

“The seaweed gatherer’s weary feet keep coming back to my shore—” Sakura stands on the balls of her feet to lift a plastic bin onto her bookcase— “Doesn’t he know there’s no harvest for him in this uncaring bay?”* She grins. “You’re not the only person who reads.”

“Reading, yes. But an entire home library?” Sasori glimpses her reflection in the mirror of a trinket. “One last game,” he proposes, wishing he could be the looking glass.

“I don’t want to play,” she says.

“Afraid of losing?”

“I told you when we first met, I don’t play. Why are you so in love with things unbearable?” The cream of Sakura’s collarbone peeks out from beneath her cotton sundress. “You know you won’t win.”

Sasori pivots on his heel to depart. “Don’t turn around.” The sudden warmth from Sakura’s body as her arms envelop him from behind feels familiar and welcoming. “All my life, I’ve only loved one man. This much is constant about me. Do you understand?” He nods, reaching for her hands, pressed against his torso. “Good. I’m only going to say this once, so listen closely. My husband came from an old samurai family in Konoha. My married name is Uchiha, like the fan, in hiragana.”

What other way would Sakura surrender her hand? Only in her victory.

* * *

They shoot him down; he's smart enough to know not to run. Still, Sasori does not die. Survive, live – these are the things his body emphatically knows how to do. Weeks pass before he emerges from his coma. The days bleed into one another when he finally wakes.

A rap on the door interrupts the monotony. “Haruno,” he greets from his hospital bed, his voice scratchy from lack of use. Sasori catches her gaze in the television screen. Her scent wafts into the room and lingers over him, clinging to his hair.

“Yes, I’m here to visit,” Sakura says, shedding the offensive white fabric and laying it across his feet, “and to play doctor.” She hands him a paper cup with his daily pills. “Though I might extend my congratulations to you.”

“Congratulations?” Sasori tilts his head towards her.

“The notebook disappeared from HQ about sixteen hours after you were gunned down,” Sakura tells him. “And I’m still alive.” Her hand wraps around his ankle, then, casual -- the way a wife might take her husband’s hand. “And you’re awake.”

“Ah,” he says, understanding, “they can’t prosecute.”

His mattress sinks under her weight. “Not enough circumstantial evidence,” she confirms. “They’re trying to locate the notebook as we speak.” Sakura tightens her grip before reaching into her purse. “Have you any idea where it could have gone?”

The sight of the wooden board almost comforts him. “I’ve never seen or been in possession of Kira’s notebook,” Sasori maintains, sifting through pieces in the canvas bag.

The psychiatrist smiles at him. “As expected,” the young woman replies, noting his response on her clipboard. After a minute of scribbling, she stands to walk to the window. Sakura draws the curtains back, the light from a dying sun staining every surface in the room a blood orange. “The sky is beautiful today,” Sakura comments, “did you wonder why?”

Sasori studies a nearby particle of dust as it catches on his bedsheets. The psychiatrist gazes out the window, wistful. As he watches her, Sasori can’t help but feel quiet.

“Antares, the scorpion’s heart, is the fifteenth brightest star in our solar system. It’s only visible to the human eye one day of the year.” As she returns to the board sitting on the lap, Sakura motions to the chips. “I’ll play as black.”

Sasori stacks the white pieces, laying his Marshall at the top. The starlight paints the Marshall a deep, ruby red.

“After Sasuke-kun died,” Sakura tells him, and Sasori stops at the unfamiliar name, “I thought I didn’t deserve happiness. I thought I was a failure of a wife for not protecting him.” She sets her Marshall in the corner. “But now I see – no one is worthy of happiness. The only happy people are the ones who avail themselves of the opportunity.”

“Only the ignorant die happy, Haruno,” he retorts. His white pawn moves towards her.

“Do you like my maiden name?” Her own pawn retreats. “Or do you simply prefer it?”

A sharp breath draws Sasori’s attention to her exposed clavicle once more. “That’s redundant,” he replies, bringing his musketeer into the fold. Across the board, his companion builds a fortress. Sasori recognizes the configuration immediately: kokoriko, an old trick. The white lieutenant closes in on her Marshall, doing away at the heart of her defense.

With her simple move, a spy controls the board. “You found a way out,” Sasori says, reverential. Unrelenting in his attack, he lays a knight and lieutenant general.

“Can I tell you something?” Her inquiry, perhaps softened by the sunset, washes over him like a gentle tide. “I haven’t felt this happy,” she confesses, “in a long time.” Six-five-one, knight.

The redhead blinks at her. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because–”

The answer comes to him by the flourish of her pen and the light glinting off the metal of clipboard.

“You’re Kira.”

“Killers make the best profilers,” she says. Sasori struggles to look at her, eyes heavy with sleep. “No one will believe you.”

“Clever girl,” he commends. Sasori clutches her right hand with his, forfeiting. “I resign.”

“The sedative is working,” Sakura deduces. “Do you want to know how your story ends?” The molasses of her voice lulls him to sleep as she continues. “One day, years from now, you’ll look through a window. You’ll be seized by a feeling – like a spider’s crawled up into your brain and is running the controls – to leave, leave the home you’re in, and find the sea. You’ll walk until the waves carry you out, far away. You’ll become the wave, the sea foam, the dust and the sand.”

“Nothing will be left, all scattered,” Sasori manages to recall from the hazy depths of his consciousness, “gone. How nice for those cherry blossoms.”*

The huff of Sakura’s breath against his forehead feels like the ocean breeze. “For in this world of ours, the end is bitter and hateful.” The rose-haired woman flashes his silver signet, nestled on her thumb. “When you meet my husband,” Sakura says, “tell him I’ll see him soon.”

Sleep crashes over him like the tempest storm. In its rains, Sasori sees his parents, their arms extended towards him. He recalls traces of himself in them: in his father’s jaw and the curve of his mother’s brow. He remembers them with excruciating clarity, down to the lines of their faces. Finally, he remembers himself in the water’s surface. The sound of anguish that echoes with the wind through his socket, taunting.* Sakura’s laughter reminds him that it is the sound of surrender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sakura quotes a poem by Ono no Komachi.  
> **Sasori quotes a poem by Ariwara no Narihira, rumored to be Ono no Komachi's lover, and Sakura completes the passage.  
> ***A reference to Ono no Komachi's death.
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed the story.


End file.
